


Against Glass: One Shots

by AllThatMatters



Series: Against Glass [2]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, Angst, Crimes & Criminals, Domestic, Drama, Drugs, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Guns, M/M, Smut, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 05:08:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29272980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllThatMatters/pseuds/AllThatMatters
Summary: This series will consist of one-shot shorts form the original Against Glass story. This is NOT a sequel! Every chapter will be a different one-shot that stands alone. There will be familiar scenes from different perspectives as well as new scenes that were never included! There is no time limit or number that I know of yet, they will simply be posted as they come to me!
Relationships: Ian Gallagher & Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: Against Glass [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2149725
Comments: 9
Kudos: 63





	Against Glass: One Shots

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first night - the first chapter - from Ian's perspective.

Ian loved this song; every time it came on he forgot about the gold shorts that chafed his thighs and he forgot about the needy, grimy hands that reached out for him to slide bills into the waistband; he forgot about the pills; he forgot about the path that had led him to that very stage, and he forgot about the fact that he was drowning in this life he seemingly thrived in.

Closing his eyes then, Ian forgot all that shit and danced like he was paid to, letting the music fill up his empty places that were shattered and cracked, seeping the sound and dark water into his soul, creating a stormy swirl of happiness and panic that mingled together awkwardly inside him, pulling him in two different directions. 

“Curtis!” a voice yelled suddenly – over the music and the thrum of the crowd – and Ian’s eyes flew open as he came too quickly back to earth. David – the biggest muscle on security – was standing down in front of him, leaning slightly towards the podium with large, calloused hands cupped around his mouth, projecting a voice that Ian thought was already too loud.

Kneeling to get closer, Ian raised his eyebrows as lights pulsed rainbows on his skin.

“Yea!?” he screamed back, wiping the sheen of sweat off his brow that was starting to drip down into his eyes.

“Need to talk to you!”

Ian felt himself swallow; it was one thing when clients tried to grab his attention and sweet talk their way into giving an extra large tip for an extra large request in one of the back rooms, but it was a whole other story when security came sniffing around.

_Fuck_.

“Sure!” Ian smiled, hopping down from his one-man stage to follow David through the crowd towards the back of the club, and it wasn’t lost on him the way a few of the patrons looked sadder at his leaving.

David pushed open the swinging door to the back storage room where Harris was stacking boxes of liquor, his vest riding up occasionally to reveal his naked abs as he worked; Ian couldn’t help but notice.

“Boss called,” David cut in then, whirling on a dime, causing Ian to nearly slam right into him.

“He did?” Ian felt his stomach twist over; if Shea Sirko was calling and Ian was being told about it, it meant something big was happening; the last time Sirko called about Ian personally, it was because Okulov was back in town…

“Yea, you’ve been…” David trailed off, glancing absently at Harris who was watching them from the corner of the room. “Can I help you?” David asked him absently – sounding completely unimpressed and rather annoyed – causing Harris to fumble with a box and go back to work.

“I’ve been what?” Ian chewed on his lip, a small sense of dread rising in his chest.

“You’ve been uhh…hired…by someone else.”

Ian had to bite back the laugh that tried to escape at that; it was amusing in the most frustrating of ways that David didn’t just come out and say what he actually meant: that Ian had been _sold_ – or _traded_ – just like any other type of replaceable goods that belonged to Shea Sirko.

_You’re always replaceable, Ian._

“Okay…” Fuck. Ian tried not to sound hesitant. “Where am I going?”

“SS.” David said this like Ian would automatically know the place, but he didn’t; instead, he felt his brows furrow as he tried to remember that name – tried to remember why it sounded vaguely familiar. “You know,” David continued, smiling a little at Ian’s look of confusion as he placed his hands on his hips. “The Milkoviches!? SS!?”

_Oh fuck_.

“Oh shit!” Ian spat, realization settling in while he absently wondered how the fuck his life had become _this_ – whatever the fuck _this_ was. “Terry Milkovich’s club?” It all came flooding back in an instant, how could it not? Terry was South Side royalty.

“Yea, boss said something about good business, keeping ties strong, yadda yadda…”

“You’re leavin’!?” Harris chimed in suddenly, setting a case of beer onto one of the counters.

Glancing over at him, Ian saw how Harris’s eyes actually looked a little sad at the prospect, which only served to annoy him; the guy hadn’t let up once since his arrival a few weeks before. Ian was always down for a fuck, but not whatever that look in Harris’s eyes was…

“Guess so!” Ian tried to smile at him, making sure it wouldn’t be taken as an invitation.

“Well fuck, I only just got here!”

It was innocent enough, but Ian didn’t have time for whatever the fuck Harris wanted from him; sure, he could appreciate the package – he’d even been considering giving in and taking him a time or two for the thrill of it – but Ian could tell there were deeper, more intense intentions behind Harris’s eyes, and fuck that noise – fuck it straight to Hell.

_You’re always replaceable. You’ll always be replaced._

“Yea, it’s a real fuckin’ shame,” David snorted in answering, shoving a fist into Ian’s shoulder before turning back for the main club. “A driver will be picking you up after your shift!” he called back, not letting the swinging door hit him on his way out. “Enjoy the high life, kid!”

Staring after him, Ian could do nothing more than just blink a few times as he let those words sink in. _High life_. The Milkoviches had more money than God, and an equally well-known reputation; did that mean that in his own, weird, fucked up way, Ian was moving up in the world?

_Fuck_.

“Hey, you think I could maybe give you my number?” Harris asked suddenly, pulling Ian from his wonderings. Harris looked hopeful, the older man’s eyes going somewhat soft in the pulsing lights that reverberated in through the glass panel on the swinging door.

“Umm…” Ian hesitated, wiping a sweaty hand over the back of his equally sweaty neck; if he had been staying, he probably would have considered it for just the sake of getting his dick sucked, but now that he was leaving, he really just didn’t see the fucking point; but Ian Gallagher was also really bad at just saying _no_ sometimes. “Yea umm, maybe after my shift,” Ian lied, turning for the door at once so they didn’t make eye contact as he tried to figure out an excuse to avoid the whole thing altogether. “Gotta get back to work!”

At just after one-thirty, Ian stepped down from his place on the podium at the Fairy Tale for what he kind of hoped would be the last time; if he never saw the inside of this place again, it would be way too fucking soon. Sure, he had no idea what SS was going to be like – or just how insane or mundane it was going to be working for the Milkoviches – but he thought anything would be better than this place and the memories it held.

_Okulov._

Ian had never met a Milkovich he didn’t think; he knew Terry had lived a few blocks over from them on South Wallace growing up, and that there had definitely been a kid or two – he swore Lip had told him once about doing homework for one of them, but it was too long ago now to remember for sure.

Stepping into the change room, Ian grabbed a clean towel from his locker before strolling into one of the private shower stalls, stripping off his gold shorts behind the curtain and tossing them out onto the floor, fully intending to just leave them there in the dirt and the grime where they belonged.

The water was hot, just the way he liked it; hanging his head, Ian placed his palms on the tiles, letting the stream cascade through his hair, along his neck, and down over the strained muscles of his back that were tense from five hours of non-stop dancing and grinding against private clients. It was soothing, but that didn’t mean the hammering of a well-placed stream of water could take away the worry and the tiny hint of fear that arose at the sudden, impending start of a new life.

Ian was being dragged deeper into it now, he knew it, and a way out was becoming less and less of a possibility; Shea Sirko was one thing – an Irish-Ukrainian asshole who valued his assets so much that they were never out of his sights or out from under his thumb for more than a second; but fuck, Terry Milkovich was an even bigger fish in an even bigger pond, so just how fucked was Ian, anyways? How the fuck was he supposed to survive being thrown in with the sharks when he was barely holding his head above water as it was…

“Shit,” he huffed, turning himself around so he could let his head fall back, allowing the water to pelt against his face as he reached blindly out for the soap dispenser, pumping a few squirts onto his hand before dragging it under his arms, over his body, down across his cock and his balls, wiping away the sweat and the self-hatred that lingered in spots that he didn’t ever think would be totally clean.

“Yo, Curtis!” David called suddenly, making Ian jump a little in the soft thud of the bass that still reverberated from the main club.

“Yea?” Ian poked his head around the curtain, wiping water out of his eyes.

“Think your ride will be here soon so, get a move on.” David winked at him, and Ian thought absently that David was probably the only person he could have grown to like in that whole godforsaken place, if he’d had the time or the patience to care that is. “Don’t want some Milkovich henchman waiting around for you, it’ll make the boss look bad.”

Ian rolled his eyes before returning to the safety of his shower.

“Yea yea, be done in a sec.”

Setting his backpack down onto the floor, Ian pulled a stool out from one of the counters in the storage room and sat himself down onto it while he waited; he’d have preferred not to have to sit awkwardly in a room with Harris as he stacked liquor and took inventory – his dark eyes occasionally finding Ian’s face in the music and the lights – but David had told him to wait there and well, Ian supposed that’s what he had to do.

“So,” Harris smiled, trying really hard to make it sweet, but instead it just set Ian’s teeth on edge in all the wrong ways; he was trying to flirt, and Ian didn’t want to flirt, he just wanted to fuck sometimes.

_Please don’t ask for my number, please don’t ask for my number, please please please…_

“You know anything about the Milkoviches?” Ian spat, interrupting his coworker’s train of thought in hopes of veering him far enough off course that the entire number exchange would be forgotten. Ian pulled his hood up over his head to try and seem as invisible as possible, which for some reason was something he had done since he was a kid – like just doing that one simple thing could hide him away from the world.

“Not really.” Harris’s voice was happy enough, though Ian could tell he was a bit miffed at being derailed. “Just the usual shit about their clubs and their money and their apparent interest in shady, shady shit…”

“Yea, same.” Ian’s hands were twitching in his lap; fuck, he needed a cigarette, and bad. “Terry’s from around the same place I am,” he offered then, trying to be vague enough that he wouldn’t give too much of himself away.

“Oh yea?” Harris grabbed a bottle of vodka, handing it to one of the bartenders who came in the back room then, looking.

“Yea, South Side area.”

“Hmm…” Harris didn’t say anything, but there was a sudden look of condescension in his eye that only served to piss Ian off.

“Where you from originally?” Ian asked, for the sake of nothing more than his own sanity and wasting time.

“Glencoe.”

_Of fucking course_.

“How the fuck did you end up _here_?”

Harris shrugged with a grin on his lips – as if the story weren’t all that interesting but maybe a little funny – and suddenly Ian found that Harris was no longer all that attractive in any way whatsoever, because the story of how he himself had ended up there wasn’t funny in the least – in fact, it had been a fucking nightmare – and it was a story that Ian was sure he would never tell another living soul. Nobody would ever be able to listen to that fucked up shit and take him seriously; nobody out there could possibly look Ian in the eye and think: _Yea, this is somebody that’s worth something_ …

The door behind him swung open then – Ian could hear the squeak of the hinges over the music – and he sat up a little straighter automatically, mentally preparing himself to turn and face his future.

A waft of cigarette smoke hit Ian first, making his cravings fucking skyrocket and his fists tighten. Turning slightly in his seat, Ian watched out of his peripherals as a man came up beside him then – cigarette smoking wildly between his fingers despite the no smoking indoors policy – and looked at Harris like he was the most annoying, most useless, most mundanely obscure piece of shit he had ever seen.

Ian had to bite back a smile.

“You Curtis?” the man asked, and Ian thought his voice sounded just as uninterested – Ian thought his voice sounded better than the music that kept him alive. The stranger’s nose was sharp, cutting through the tension as he watched Harris stare blinkingly back at him like he was terrified; his dark hair matched the shadow of stubble on his jaw and the dark look in his eyes; Ian couldn’t really tell, but he thought maybe those eyes were blue, which only made the annoyance within them sexier.

_Fuck. Who the fuck is this guy?_

Ian swallowed; took a breath.

“That’d be me,” he offered, voice catching a little, and the second the stranger’s eyes were on him, it took everything within him not to fall backwards off the fucking chair.

It was like being slapped in the face with chiseled marble and attitude.

“Well,” the stranger huffed, a stream of smoke escaping out into the room that Ian wanted to inhale. “I’m your ride.”

 _Not yet_ , Ian thought wryly. _But you could be…_

When he stood then, Ian had to bite back another smile; the stranger took an automatic step back as he straightened himself to his full height, which gave Ian an odd sense of pleasure. The sudden, fleeting look of intimidation – of _something_ – that flickered in the stranger’s blue eyes set a small fire alight somewhere deep inside his chest.

 _Fuck_.

Ian was about to grab his backpack up from off the floor and follow this fucking stranger to the ends of the goddamn earth if he had to without even sparing Harris a second look, but his conscience got the best of him. Turning, Ian reached his arm out awkwardly to hug his coworker, weakly wrapping it around his shoulders in an attempt to seem civil.

“I’ll uh, I’ll see you around soon,” Ian mumbled, hoping like fuck that wasn’t true.

“Yea, sure thing.” Harris half-smiled, and Ian could tell Harris didn’t believe a word of that, either.

 _Good_.

Not able to ignore the stranger for a second longer, Ian swung back around – his eyes briefly landing on him as he reached for his backpack – and although Ian couldn’t be one hundred percent sure, he thought he saw the man’s blue eyes dart away from his body before he turned and strode with purpose back towards the main club, almost like he’d been looking.

That fire inside Ian grew into an inferno then as he stood helplessly staring after him, watching that cigarette hang carelessly from between perfect, pouted lips...

Suddenly the man’s hand lifted in a _what-the-fuck-are-you-waiting-for_ motion, dragging Ian out of his unfounded reverie as his dark eyebrows nearly hit the ceiling, and Ian realized with a flush of embarrassment that the man was waiting for him, holding the door open like he was trying to be polite.

_Get a grip, Ian._

“Oh shit, thank you!” Ian spat, trying to feign ignorance as he squeezed past the stranger, his smaller, compact frame rubbing against Ian’s side as he went, making his skin come to life – making him acutely aware of his unyielding presence.

Only five steps later, Ian wanted desperately to turn around and see if he was coming – if the stranger was following him or admiring the view his ass provided – but he swallowed it down, trying hard to remember where he was, who this guy worked for, and that there was a time and a place for shit like that, and it definitely wasn’t here and now.

“Hey, Curtis!” the man called suddenly, that same deep voice ringing out over the music like Ian had heard it a thousand times before; it was the strangest feeling Ian had ever known – like this stranger was familiar to him, even though Ian was certain he had never laid eyes on him before in his life.

He would have remembered.

Taking a deep breath, Ian turned and strolled back to where the stranger stood, never once taking his eyes off the smoke that curled up into the sweaty air as he held his cigarette deep between his fingers.

“What?” Ian asked, trying for that bubbliness that snagged him clients, and maybe one day could snag him this guy. Ian was fairly certain from nothing more than the few minutes that had passed that they played for the same team.

The stranger raised another dark eyebrow in what Ian assumed was amusement, and he wondered absently if those fucking eyebrows always betrayed every emotion he was feeling…

“This guy’s dick real?” the man asked bluntly, pointing a tattooed finger directly at Corey’s bulge. Those tattoos…how had he not noticed them before?

A smile crept its way up Ian’s face then, but it wasn’t from the question or the complete lack of filtration system – it was from the black ink needled into harsh hands.

_FUCK U-UP_

This guy was reeling Ian in without even knowing it – without even meaning to – especially when he raised one of those hands now and waved at Corey’s harsh gaze like an asshole, mocking him.

_Hook, line, sinker._

“Definitely not,” Ian yelled back, leaning in a little more than he meant to. “Tube sock!”

That perfect bottom lip jutted outwards at his statement, and Ian glanced down at it briefly, wanting nothing more than to taste it as a look of feigned amazement slipped across the stranger’s face; he took a long, deep drag from that cigarette then, and Ian had never once in his life wished he was something as mundane and inconspicuous as a cigarette filter, but in that moment, he thought it was probably a really fucking amazing thing to be.

“Tube sock,” the man repeated, not looking Ian in the eye as he pushed past him and headed for the exit.

Ian watched the way the stranger’s jeans hugged an ass that was so perfect more than one set of eyes in the club were on it, causing an unwarranted pang of possession to creep up his spine, and he wanted suddenly to yell above the crowd that he himself didn’t need a tube sock – that all nine inches of him was real and he’d be more than happy to play show and tell – but the front door swung shut, and Ian missed his opportunity completely.

Outside the air was even cooler than it had been when Ian had arrived, though it had finally stopped raining. Glancing upwards, Ian eyed the fog that hugged the city’s ceiling; it almost looked like it might snow, but beyond the low-hanging veil, the sky was clear.

“Holy shit,” Ian exclaimed without meaning to, his gaze returning to earth as he watched the stranger approach a black car that Ian knew was an Audi, though he wasn’t sure of the type. “Is this your car!?” It was fucking sexy, and when Ian looked back at the stranger then, he wasn’t sure why he had ever expected anything less.

The man half-grinned, a cocky smile making his eyes shine in the night light’s before he tossed his butt out into the street.

“Yeah” he replied casually, sounding as if he didn’t really care, and unlocked the car. Ian watched his black hair disappear before swinging open the passenger side door and sliding down into the leather seat – his long legs fitting perfectly despite its compact size – and Ian had the random, inexplicable notion that he belonged there.

It was damp inside the car – the moist air making Ian’s skin sticky in a way only the humidity of Chicago in early spring could manage – so he pushed his hood back, trying to breathe in the tight confines of the car while a raging ball of dark-haired fire burned beside him.

The interior light clicked on abruptly – making Ian squint a little in the night – and the stranger reached across the space in front of him, popping open the glove box, those fucking hands shoving his cigarettes and cell phone into the tight space.

Ian could swear he felt the heat coming off of him. _Fuck_. It was like there was a lightning storm inside the car, but there were no sparks or deep rumblings to prove it – it was all inside his head, he was sure of it.

“Jesus,” the stranger spat suddenly when he pulled back, his voice more playful and carefree in the moment, causing Ian to turn towards him. His driver was turned in his seat, back leaning up against his door while his left hand rested up on the steering wheel, and he was looking at Ian like he was made of Play-Doh.

Ian couldn’t help but smile a bit, like the stranger was pulling it from his lips without meaning to.

“What?”

“You’re a fire-crotch,” the man blurted, and Ian felt that same smile disappear in an instant as he snorted his disdain for that term before staring back out the windshield.

“Will that be a problem for Mr. Milkovich?” he asked curtly, feeling the annoyance bubble up inside him. “Does he prefer brunettes?” Ian was maybe crossing a line and he knew it; implying the head of the Milkovich Empire was gay wasn’t an insult in Ian’s mind, obviously, but he knew it may not land right with the wrong people.

It was quiet for a moment, so Ian risked a glance back at the stranger, and was surprised to find blue eyes staring back at him as his square jaw worked side to side, like he was chewing on his lip to maybe hold back a smile.

The man’s eyes held Ian’s for a second longer before they moved almost imperceptibly, raking quickly down over Ian’s features as if taking him in. Ian felt his thighs get warm under the scrutiny that under any other circumstances would be unwelcome, but there was something about _him_ that Ian couldn’t shake.

It only lasted a split second, but it was enough – it was enough for Ian to feel something he hadn’t felt in a long, long time.

“You’re not _for_ Mr. Milkovich,” the man spat abruptly – turning away from Ian then as if he had realized way too late that he was staring – and hit the push start, the car suddenly rumbling to life like the thunder in Ian’s imagined storm that was brewing between them.

Ian could feel his bones vibrating as the engine purred – could feel his teeth rattling – and suddenly he was back home in the South Side, the prospect of crime and high speed and late nights making his skin come alive – making his nerves shoot sparks into the far empty reaches of his soul – creating a chaos that he lived for, just as much as he feared it.

Unable to do anything else, Ian kept looking at the stranger, and waited; waited for _something_ – waited for _anything_ to make him feel more alive than he had in months. This man could do that for him, and Ian knew it.

Somehow, Ian knew it.

Staring at the side of his perfectly angled face, Ian silently dared the stranger to show him what he was made of, or to prove to him that he was wrong about everything – that Ian was wrong about the person he thought this stranger was and the things he could do in the dark of night, or behind the wheel…

Blue eyes met Ian’s suddenly like he had actually spoken that challenge aloud – even though he hadn’t – and in that instant, Ian knew he wasn’t wrong about fucking anything.

Apparently, the black-haired stranger didn’t need any more convincing, and a small smile worked its way across Ian’s face then as the stranger threw the car into gear, pushing the pedal so hard to the floor that the tires squealed sharply, sending up a sudden cloud of burnt rubber as the back end of the car shifted sideways slightly before finally gripping the pavement, launching them off in the direction of downtown.

Both the man’s hands were on the wheel, and Ian watched how his knuckles went white from the pressure before returning his gaze to the world in front of them, passing lights casting harsh shadows around them as they tore towards something Ian wasn’t altogether sure of.

The smile on Ian’s lips never wavered, like it had been carved there and would never fall away. The speed was almost serene, the idea of danger calming him and making the dancing and the music and the folded twenties and the grimy hands fade into the background, leaving nothing but himself, this car, and the man beside him.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ian thought he saw that man look at him then, piercing blue eyes sizing him up, gauging to see if he would falter in the face of chaos. Ian wanted to meet his gaze – wanted to turn and let him know that he had been born for this, and was utterly willing to bend over in the madness if the other man was, he just had to speak the words…

but Ian didn’t say any of that; he couldn’t; if that happened, then it would all come to a crashing halt, leaving him with nothing more than an awkward car ride and an even worse _so long_ or _goodbye_ , because once they had had him, nobody ever stuck around long enough to handle the consequences of the person he was, and Ian didn’t want that, not with this stranger.

For some inexplicable reason, Ian wanted this stranger to stick around, even if it was only for the thrill he would get on this short car ride home. So Ian watched the road instead, letting his mind go blank until they were pulling onto the expressway, the flashing lights of police cars in the distance catching his eye, causing the man to slow the car instinctively, making Ian feel suddenly like they were crawling backwards instead of hurtling forward through space and time. 

“You’re a pretty decent driver,” Ian observed casually, wanting to break the silence as he peeked back at the stranger. “What’s your name again?” Ian knew the stranger had never offered his name – Ian would have remembered it if he had – but he wanted to know it, for nothing more than to maybe whisper it to himself later when the realization hit that he would probably never see this guy again.

“Mikhailo,” he answered, glancing at Ian with a look that Ian couldn’t quite figure out. “Everyone calls me Mickey.” 

_Mickey_ , Ian thought, the name soft and quiet in his mind – the opposite of everything the stranger seemed to be. Ian wanted more than anything to say it out loud, but he didn’t; he nodded instead, glancing out the window as they passed the cops, who were busy aiming a flashlight into a driver’s face.

“So are you just like the driver or something?” Ian ventured, trying to make small talk to fill the awkward tension he couldn’t’ seem to control, but also wanting to know more – he was desperate to know more.

Leaning back in his seat, Ian turned a bit, granting himself a better view of Mickey, wanting to also commit him to memory.

Mickey scratched absently at the tip of his nose, a tiny tell that made Ian hide the grin that teased his lips.

“Uh, you could say that, I guess,” Mickey admitted, and Ian thought he was trying not to smile again, though Ian wasn’t exactly sure why. Had he said something amusing?

Opening his mouth, Ian was about to ask about the Milkoviches when his brain finally stepped in and took over from his unruly heart and needy dick, shutting him up so he wouldn’t seem too interested in a man that was probably off limits, or at least seriously out of reach, even if he didn’t seem to be. So Ian glanced back out the window, eyeing the lights of the approaching downtown as they edged closer, always amazed at how bright it looked in the dark, the glass shimmering like the whole city could shatter to pieces in an instant.

It was quiet then, and Ian reveled in it, allowing his mind to calm itself as the sound of the engine rumbled steadily beneath them, its vibrations rising and falling when Mickey pumped either the gas or the brake.

 _Mickey_.

There was an overwhelming urge to glance back at him as he drove; the casual way in which he gripped the wheel with his left hand as his right hung loose on his thigh or on the gear shift – like it had nothing better to do – made Ian soft in a way he didn’t understand, and also made him think he could come up with a few things for those idle fingers to busy themselves with…

Mickey shifted in his seat then, the sudden movement catching Ian’s eye, and he watched as Mickey bent awkwardly forward, his eyes trying to stay above the wheel as he reached down with that idle right hand and began shoving it under the seat, pawing it around like he was looking for something.

“You okay?” Ian asked, automatically leaning forward, eyes searching the ground for whatever Mickey was clearly looking for.

Mickey didn’t answer, but his arm stilled suddenly and his gaze shifted to the rearview for a split second before he pulled a fucking gun out from under the seat. At its appearance, that thrill inside of Ian returned tenfold, hindered only slightly by a tiny twinge of fear that made his blood hot and his stomach turn over.

It was an intoxicating blend.

The way Mickey’s eyes shifted to his side mirror then made Ian glance back over his shoulder, and he watched with a steadily increasing heartbeat as a black sedan pulled out from behind them, sliding carelessly into the passing lane. Ian was about to ask what the fuck was going on, but the sound of Mickey chambering a round broke through the tension and the silence instead – providing Ian with all the answers he needed – and that metallic noise was one that sent a shiver down Ian’s spine, not entirely in a bad way.

“If I say get down, get down,” Mickey said then, quietly, matter-of-factly, laying his gun across his lap and aiming it towards the door like he was ready to blast someone – anyone – off the face of the earth for Ian’s sake.

 _Fuck_. Why was that so hot? There was something wrong with Ian; he always knew it, but this was just further proof.

The sedan edged up beside them, but Ian couldn’t take his eyes off of Mickey, watching the way his brows furrowed in the dim glow of the dash, the way his eyes sparkled with intensity and focus as he watched like it was what he was born to do.

 _Maybe it_ was.

Without warning, Mickey slammed the brakes hard, causing Ian to shoot his hand out and brace himself on the glove box as he jerked forward against the seatbelt, glad he hadn’t felt like being _“too cool”_ to put it on. Luckily, it was early enough in the morning that there weren’t any other cars by them on the expressway, and Ian watched as the sedan continued on without pausing, tail lights glowing red in the hazy night before disappearing from sight.

“Who was that?” he asked quietly, noticing the hint of nerves in his voice that betrayed him, but it was nothing compared to the excitement that tingled in his limbs.

“Not sure. Maybe nobody.” Mickey began moving the car forward again, slowly, his eyes scanning the horizon more than they had been. “Could be I’m just fuckin’ paranoid.”

Silence fell back between them then as Ian sunk back down into his seat; he let the atmosphere of tension and danger hang in the air for a few minutes, keeping them both breathing and alive before Ian could no longer stand the quiet.

“So where are we going?” he queried, resting his head in his hand against the window as a sudden tiredness overtook him in the aftermath of everything. All of this was too much, and Ian didn’t just mean the sedan or the gun; he meant Mickey – more than anything, he meant Mickey.

“Sirko didn’t tell you?” Mickey quirked an eyebrow like he was surprised by that fact.

Ian just shrugged.

“They said I was moving to a different nightclub, run by the Milkoviches. They said the gig was a bit more exclusive…” 

_High life._

Ian glanced up at the rearview as another car broke over the horizon behind them, but it was far enough away that he didn’t feel too paranoid about it; if Mickey wasn’t making a move for the gun, he wasn’t going to make a move to be worried.

“You’ll still dance, escort,” Mickey put in, sniffing in the quiet like he was trying to be calm about that fact – like he was trying to not let it bother him. “But you’ll be exposed to a much…bigger clientele.” Mickey looked at him then, and Ian let his brows furrow as he considered what that meant. “Let’s just say,” Mickey continued, “that you’re moving up in the world.”

After a second, Mickey glanced away suddenly, looking back at the road as he his knuckles went white again, holding tighter to the gun and the wheel like there was a tension inside of him he couldn’t shake.

Following Mickey’s gaze, Ian watched the still-wet pavement in the headlights, trying not to think about how every mile they drove buried him deeper in this life; instead, he tried to let Mickey’s comment of moving on up lighten him a little. Sure, maybe he was being dragged further beneath the waves, but maybe that meant the money would be better at least; if his body was more of an exclusive commodity, maybe that meant more money to take home to Lip, to Debbie…

Despite everything, Ian felt himself smile a bit it that; maybe to them, he wasn’t replaceable.

“I bet the tips are gunna be fuckin’ _huge_!” he tried to joke, and actually managed to laugh, because he was far too invested now to let himself feel the regret.

It had been quiet for a long while when Willis Tower finally came back into sight, standing tall and unwavering in the early-morning fog that was beginning to thicken as dawn slowly approached.

“Almost there, man” Mickey declared, slowing the car as they pulled gently into the city’s centre.

Ian bit back a smile at the way Mickey called him _man_ , so casual and friendly that it made Ian wonder if maybe they could at least be acquaintances if nothing else; but Ian’s brain decided to pop back into the conversation then, reminding him that these were the Milkoviches he was dealing with now, and becoming friends with anybody in the life had been something he had decided against a long time ago...

Trying to distract himself with anything, Ian leaned forward, glancing up through the windshield at the buildings that rose up around them, those same glass windows casting light out into the night.

“Wow,” he whispered by accident – the sight of the city at night never failing to make him feel small and alive – and was sure he sounded like a complete fucking idiot, especially when Mickey sniffed a little from beside him then, probably trying not to laugh in his face.

“We got you an apartment set up already,” Mickey offered instead, clearly sidestepping that little outburst as he paused briefly at a red light before it switched quickly to green. “Tomorrow I’ll have some movers go get everything you want from your old place. We’ll take care of the lease and shit...” 

Obviously Ian knew he would be moving apartments – it came with the gigs – but last time he’d had to do it all himself.

_High life, indeed._

“Jesus,” he huffed at the admission, rubbing gently at the stubble of his jaw that he seriously needed to shave off. “Am I like fuckin’ royalty now or what?”

“Definitely,” Mickey answered without hesitation, the word coming out quieter than Ian had thought was possible.

The way he said it made Ian’s heart stutter, and he glanced absently at Mickey, feeling the corner of his mouth pull up just the smallest bit without him meaning it to as Mickey stared back at him, and despite the dark of the night, Ian could see the blush that was making Mickey’s skin glow.

 _Fuck fuck fuck_.

Ian bit the inside of his cheek to keep from doing anything stupid; this was work, nothing more – nothing more than a civil exchange of goods that was being passed over from one hand to the next, and Ian didn’t have time to make a stupid mistake like making a move on a man who – from the tense look on his face – may never want it. More than that, Ian _was_ the goods – he was nothing more than product.

He was nothing, really.

Swallowing down whatever need was trying to claw its way up his throat, Ian returned his gaze to the outside world and pulled out his phone, intent on distracting himself by taking pictures of the city he loved.

It only took about two minutes before Ian had his phone in his lap, angled slightly away from him so the camera was pointed at Mickey; he knew it was really fucking desperate and really fucking weird, but he needed to remember him – he needed to remember this night – if only for a little while.

“Always love the city at night,” Ian admitted, keeping his gaze out the window and making sure Mickey was looking away as his finger tapped the shutter button on his phone, snapping one single picture of Mickey at the wheel that he was sure he’d end up deleting by the end of the week when he realized he’d never even stood a chance.

Mickey didn’t answer, he just kept driving; so Ian kept talking, rambling on and on about anything as he snapped pictures, not even caring that Mickey was ignoring him completely as he simply basked in his sudden, overwhelming presence.

“Hoooly shit,” Ian exhaled, stepping out of the car and glancing up at the tall glass façade of his new home – an apartment building by Skinner Park that was way fucking fancier than anything he thought he deserved.

Bipolar whore-adjacents that danced for a living should probably be in institutions, not downtown condos.

“I told ya man, royalty…” Mickey shoved the Glock into his waistband, and Ian caught the slightest glimpse of skin beneath his shirt before Mickey leaned over and motioned to Ian’s backpack on the floor of the front seat. “I’ll get this,” he said, hauling it out and swinging it over his shoulder while Ian slammed the passenger door closed behind him, the sudden act of gallantry making his cheeks go hot.

“You sure?” Ian cocked an eyebrow, trying to smile as innocently as he could without seeming too flirty.

_Stop. You don’t stand a chance, remember?_

“It’s just a fuckin’ bag, man,” Mickey spat back, the sudden tone making Ian flinch as Mickey opened the lobby door and walked directly over to the panel on the wall, dark head dipping while he glanced at the buttons before buzzing one that Ian couldn’t see.

“Hello Mikhailo,” a woman’s voice came through, and Ian felt a sudden pang of jealousy at the fact that she knew he was coming, without even having to ask. “It’s apartment seven-hundred, meet you there.”

There was a quick silence before the door buzzed and Mickey pulled it open. 

“Welcome home, Fire-crotch,” he said, his easy demeanor returning in a nanosecond, and Ian was sure he was going to get whiplash as he followed him into the white buzz of fluorescent lights.

Without thinking about it, Ian flipped him off, and didn’t even wait to see what his reaction would be before glancing around the lobby of his new home away from home.

It was all white marble and grey furniture, framed by colourful abstract paintings that Ian wouldn’t pay ten cents for, and as they approached the elevator, Ian reached out automatically to hit the _up_ button before shoving his hands in his pockets, trying to curl in on himself so he could get away from the white walls that reminded him of places he wanted to forget.

“Reminds me a bit of a psych ward,” he admitted quietly, not looking at Mickey as he said it, because he actually hadn’t meant to say it out loud. 

Out of his peripherals, Ian thought he saw Mickey looking at him then, but he didn’t dare meet his eyes, because he was sure that if he did, Mickey would be able to see his past – his present – in an instant, and everything he hated most about himself would be laid out between them like a chasm.

Thankfully, the doors dinged then and opened, and Ian stepped inside quickly, not shifting away from Mickey as he shuffled in beside him in the small space, backpack still over his shoulder.

It wasn’t very noticeable really, but Ian felt the atmosphere shift as soon as the doors closed – like Mickey’s body tensing at Ian’s closeness was an audible thing that had a sound and a fear that went with it – so Ian stepped away instinctively, not wanting to burden Mickey with all that he was as he leaned against the wall and stared up at the buzzing lights in the ceiling.

When the doors finally opened again after what seemed like a fucking eternity, Ian let Mickey get out first, and watched his beautiful black hair shift in the dim glow as Mickey glanced down the hallway, where a woman was leaning against a distant doorjamb in her robe – a woman that looked too annoyed by Mickey’s presence to be anything more than an acquaintance, Ian hoped…

“Margo,” Mickey whispered, nodding a little like he was just as pained to see her, too, and Ian had to fight back a pleased smile that he had no right to display. 

“About fucking time,” she hissed, placing a set of keys rather forcefully into Mickey’s outstretched hand. The woman – Margo – met Ian’s gaze then for the first time, as if she had just realized he was even there; her eyebrows lifted above her glasses like she was both pleased and annoyed by what she saw. “Margo Mierzejewski,” she introduced coldly, and Ian made a mental note to both never get on her bad side, and try really fucking hard not to make a dent in her drywall…

“Uh, Curtis,” he answered, almost slipping up entirely under her harsh gaze and saying his real name.

She just stared at him, entirely unimpressed, before heading back to the elevator like some haunted wraith in the shadows.

Turning back to Mickey, Ian shot him a _what-the-fuck-was-that?_ look, trying not to let the tiredness at the knowledge of a bed being so close show on his face.

“Yea she’s a cunt,” Mickey spat bluntly as he unlocked the apartment, not noticing the way Ian laughed silently at his abrasiveness. “She owns a ton of properties. Fuckin’ loaded.” 

Following Mickey into his new apartment, Ian watched as his tattooed hand flicked on the light-switch to the hallway, his muscles straining a little through his jacket as he tossed Ian’s bag onto a dark wooden side-table. 

Ian whistled long and low as the apartment illuminated, but Ian’s eyes never actually left Mickey’s back, or his ass…

“Yea it’s pretty nice here,” Mickey acknowledged, flicking on all the lights one by one as his boots squeaked awkwardly on the stone floor, and Ian finally tore his eyes away to take in his new surroundings, absently eyeing the view, the lake, the stone, whatever, blah blah blah, before watching Mickey again, the idea of him in his apartment setting Ian’s insides on fire.

Mickey turned and walked somewhere to the left, down a hallway, so Ian followed instinctively – like a compass finding true north – not paying attention to anything besides savouring these last few moments with this fucking stranger that had blasted him apart in the matter of an hour.

“Fuckin’ Hell,” Ian sighed when they finally entered his bedroom, the words tumbling out without him meaning them to. There were two whole walls of glass that gave a 180 degree view of the world around them, and the sight allowed Ian’s mind to settle on something besides the unattainable for just a second before he shook it all loose and flopped down onto his bed in the centre of the room. “This place is twice as big as my old apartment.” Ian stared at the ceiling, trying like fucking Hell not to look and see if Mickey was watching him from where he stood near the doorway, even though he knew he was – he could feel his eyes burning into him.

Lifting his hand then, Ian purposefully rested it on his stomach, letting the hem of his hoodie ride up slightly, hopefully giving Mickey a show – Ian’s way of returning the favour for the tiny glimpse of Mickey’s stomach he had been granted by the Gods.

Seemingly however, those same Gods really wanted to fuck with his plans tonight, and he yawned loudly then by accident, the noise breaking through the sexual tension he was absolutely positive was there, sending static out into the room around them, just waiting to be acted upon.

“Yea I should probably let you get some sleep,” Mickey declared suddenly, and there went all of Ian’s hopes and dreams, shot suddenly to shit; if Mickey wasn’t going to make the move, Ian didn’t think he had the right to.

Sitting up, Ian intertwined his fingers in his lap to keep them from reaching out, and it wasn’t lost on him the way in which Mickey wouldn’t quite meet his eyes, or the way he shuffled a little on his feet, like he was just as nervous and curious as Ian was, but didn’t really know what the fuck to do about it.

_Fuck it._

“Yea, um, will I see you tomorrow, or...?” Ian asked, hopeful, and didn’t even try to hide it; usually he’d be down for a fuck and nothing more, but he found himself wondering if he’d ever be lucky enough to even lay eyes on Mickey again, even if it meant he never got to lay a fucking finger on him.

“Uh, yea,” Mickey admitted, his blue eyes landing on Ian for the briefest of moments, and Ian tried to act way cooler than he felt.

“Okay.” Ian exhaled, breathed, calmed down, watching tentatively as Mickey rubbed the back of his head, keeping those hands busy, busy, too.

“I’ll come by around noon,” Miceky added. “To get your apartment shit sorted.”

 _Noon_ , Ian thought, glancing quickly at the clock; that was only nine hours away; he could wait nine hours.

Mickey turned on a dime then like he was desperate to leave and headed back for the front door, so Ian stood to follow, for some reason thinking it was gentlemanly or some shit to walk his guest out.

“So will I get to meet the boss?” he asked abruptly, leaning casually against the doorjamb just as Mickey was about to leave; Ian suddenly didn’t want him to leave – he wanted to talk to him until dawn, wanted to know more about this life they suddenly shared together. “One of the legendary Milkoviches from South Side?” Ian raised his hands like a fucking idiot and shook them – like fucking jazz hands.

 _Wow_.

Mickey rubbed absently at his temple with his thumb, his gaze lowering down to the ground as if he were fighting yet another smile that his tough demeanor would never actually allow him to show before raising his eyes one final time to meet Ian’s, and the look within them was suddenly so sharp – so pure and raw – that Ian actually felt his breath hitch as he eyed those azure irises under black lashes.

“Uh, you already have,” Mickey said simply, biting his lip and raising those teasing eyebrows in a _hey-nice-to-meet-you_ sort of way before turning abruptly and walking back towards the elevator, leaving Ian to gape after him as his reality began to sink in around him.

_You already have._

_Fuck._

_Fuck fuck fuck._

Ian fell back against the doorframe, watching Mickey walk towards the elevator in those fitted black jeans and green army jacket. Mickey was probably aware, Ian thought, that he was still there in the doorway, watching; but Ian stayed put despite this, pushing his luck just a little further.

The elevator _dinged_ and the doors opened; Mickey stepped in, leaning back into the corner. Ian waited patiently – holding in his growing sense of panic – and as the door began to slide closed, there it was, the confirmation of everything he had been waiting for: Mickey glanced up at him, his blue eyes meeting Ian’s gaze for just a moment before he disappeared from sight, and Ian had the odd notion that this was just the beginning.


End file.
